


Death in the desert

by Renn11



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Actually don't have the game, Cast of oc (beware!), Gen, Gun Violence, Making characters out of wallflowers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-01-15 04:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12313500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renn11/pseuds/Renn11
Summary: Overwatch was an organisation filled with heroes, researchers and various less reputable vocations, working together to favor peace and progress over the whole globe. When Overwatch fell, all of them were scattered by the wind. Some of these individuals answered the call to reform Overwatch years later. Far more of them never returned. Here is a glimpse of some of them:A team of researcher's have travelled to the junker-infested wasteland of Australia in order to study the accident that destroyed it years prior. To keep the inhabitants from roasting them over exhaust-pipes, they have hired body-guards, some of which are former oddities of a certain disbanded organisation. Though in the dark ruins of the omnium-factory, there are worse things than lunatics to be encountered.





	1. Chapter 1

**Overwatch Agent-File: Meg & Tatton Short**  
**History: Meg and Tatton Short are siblings hailing from the countryside of Georgia, U.S.A. Born before the omnic-crisis, their childhood have been described as quiet by both parties. The siblings reportedly excelled at their studies, especially Physical Education.**  
**The outbreak of the crisis in Georgia occurred in their teenage years. As a result of some enlisters in the army, defying US-law and enlisting under-age voluntaries, the Short siblings enrolled in the army, at the most critical juncture of the war, while still minors. Meg and Tatton outranked other soldiers, with their physical ability and skill, as well as their ability to keep calm and follow orders under pressure. Despite their age warranting them expulsion from the army when the fact was discovered, the Short siblings were instead offered a place in the classified "soldier enhancement program" in recognition of their talents. The two of them became the youngest conscripts ever to take part of the program, with Meg being 17 years old and Tatton 16.**  
**The older sister's response to the soldier-augmenting process was a good, 72 % successful enhancement, however Tatton had a negative response at 29 %, was judged a failure and pulled from the front-line. After months in hospital-care, Tatton returned to the army to take on an inactive role, supporting his sister with strategic and technological back-up from home-base.**  
**When all recruits of the "soldier enhancement program" were offered a position in the newly established Overwatch organisation, Meg accepted on the condition that Tatton would be given an employment there as well.**  
**After four years the Short siblings volunteered for a military experiment, based on the telesensory research by zoologists and biomechanics Manoel Costa and Patrìcia Cruz, attempting heighten compatibility between soldiers in the field. The experiment was deemed a success, but were never implemented on a larger scale, due to the apparent risks, and problems with having it be legally approved.**  
**With the disbandment of Overwatch, the Short siblings acquired employment as special, combat-units within the UN, where they have remained until present time.**

* * *

 

Tatton Short had been taught growing up to never sit idle for more than a minute. Video-games had been practically illegal for him to play as a boy. Also books that his single mother didn't consider a good source of education. Whenever she or his grandpa found him slaking off, they would send him outside to do a chore. He had grown up on a secluded farm in the state of Georgia. Even with machines pulling the heavy-weight, there had been chores.  
     – Be the man of the household, his grandfather had said, when cold weather had turned his back into a plank of wood.  
     – Isn't there anyone better suited? Tatton wished he'd responded.  
     As a child, all these leisures had been abandoned grudgingly. A grudge he'd held on to until his military-career begun. There that discipline and healthy life-style had found it's use. Nowadays the situation had once again changed. Nowadays he struggled to move from point A to B.  
      If the adults had allowed his lazy-bun tendencies to take root, it might have been easier for Tatton to find peace in his current state. Ok well, peace he had plenty of. It was the excessive amount which grated on his nerves. Most of the day was consumed by his lap-top, and God-bless lap-tops, but how could some people spend hours using it, without having fungi sprouting from their ears?  
_Is it not the height of irony, that I have access to all the PC-games on the internet now, and I'm still restless?_   Tatton thought, seemingly to himself.  
     Sighing the man turned the computer off and unfolded his legs with a grunt. He prepared himself for a moment, swung forward; putting his hands to the ground, arms steady pillars, then pushed until he stood upright.  
     There wasn't any chairs in the tent he stood in, so Tatton had been working while sitting, one hand scratching the flint-hard crust of the earth. He shared this mobile room with his sister Meg. An area of twelve square meter (he had measured), with beige fabric walls and a lantern dangling from a hook in the ceiling like a miniature chandelier, creaking and squealing every time the wind slipped inside. Their belongings they had in two green, barely unpacked traveling bags, on the footends of a couple of thin mattresses; sprinkled with the outback's finest dust, which scratched their backs at night.  
     The crippled, though somehow not retired, soldier, peeked out through the tent-flaps, squinting at the unforgiving brightness and oven-like heat that lured outside the shadows. Australia was a harsh country. Midday in Australia was a hot hell.  
Not a land he would ever considered visiting himself, but the group of explorers who payed his salary had found that special golden clover that couldn't be picked anywhere else.  
     What made this deserted outback even more unforgiving though, the reason his employers, a select team of radiation-experts, technology-buffs and other risque individuals, had applied to the U.N for bodyguards, was that this happened to be Junker territory. Hell would be nothing without it's devils after all. A total of seven soldiers had been tasked to protect the camp from the lethal welcome these infamous outlaws gave to their guests. (Standard precaution, hopefully they could avoid detection). Tatton did not include himself in the count; he came as part of a package deal with his sister. Still apart from the guy who couldn't even kill a mosquito, (not because of empathic reasons either), the other mercenaries spelled professional with a capital letter. The fact that former Overwatch agents: the pure-breed super-soldier Meg and the Man-Maimer were among their number, had instilled the camp with a filling of relative safety at least.  
     The man swallowed, the taste and texture of his tongue mimicking the parched moon-landscape he spied before him. Flat, rusty ground that shimmered in the heat. Here and there a few strands of grey grass poked up from the ground and bushes, spreading their bare branches out like a mass of claws.  
I need a drink, Tatton thought and his gaze moved to the storage tent, standing right across from his.  
     The trek wasn't long, even in the Australian midday you wouldn't get a sun-stroke if you walked briskly. The man sighted.  
     Then again, he should have a higher tolerance for extreme temperatures than normal people. The God-damn soldier enhancement program had to have been good for something. Tatton found a wordless approval in his mind. Encouragement to " _not sit on your ass and gather fat all day_ ".  
     – Oh please, a certain diet-coach inside my head would rather let me starve than see me get chubby, he said out-loud.  
     Irregular black spots flickered over his eyes. Tatton blinked several times to get rid of them, before stepping out from the tent. The difference in temperature was smoldering, like a toaster radiating warmth at him from above. The brown, gummi-esque suit they all wore to protect against the radiation had been costumed for this climate, but still felt too hot.  
     Sheilding his arms with a stiff arm, Tatton took another jerky step forward. His limbs didn't hurt when he moved, they simply acted unwillingly. Once he had described it as if he had springs entwined into all muscles, and always had to push against them to get somewhere.  
     He had gotten half-way, and produced a good deal of sweat, when an intrusive green vision cut into his gaze, like a picture changed in an image-projector. Tatton found the desert replaced by darkness and cold air, carrying a faint tint of metal. His eyes blinked, it took him a while before Tatton recognized the strange green shade, as the nuances one saw through night-vision filters. He heard echoes from footsteps around him, accompanied by murmuring voices. The way in front of him was one big trash heap of rocks, mangled plates and beams. In the very back he could make out something immensely huge, like a collapsed tower.  
_While I am as intrigued as you are Meg, as to what the scientist could find down here, don't share this with me 'til I gotten my drink_ , he communicated without opening his mouth.  
     They had shared this connection for several years now, and still Meg would push her "point of view" on to him without permission.  
_Calm your tits, I just needed to show you a quick thing. They say this could be it_ , came his sisters reply, muffled as if she spoke to him though a wall of snow.  
     Reluctantly Tatton found his curiosity stir.  
_The omnium core?_  
_We think it is._  
     What had been the source of the explosion that ravaged the outback many years prior? Seeking an answer to that very question the explorers had braved the dangers, and entered the ruined, old factory where it happened. Though the entrance to the Australian omnium lay in Junkertown, smack in the middle of the frying-pan, the facility itself stretched underground for close to a mile. They had entered through the back-door so to say.  
     An arm, too agile to be his, moved. Tatton watched it fish a cellphone out of his sister's pocket, before Meg casually turned around and snapped a selfie with the humungous cylinder-shape in the background. The picture had a surreal quality, partly because it was a woman's face; not his own, that showed up, (Tatton could stare at a mirror for hours whenever they did this, and never get used to what he saw,) but also because the nighttime filters had turned his sister into a fish-eyed, white mutant.  
_Okay, okay, remmember. I am, infact, standing in the desert sun right now_ , Tatton reminded them both. _Take me back._  
The dark cave vanished, as if disappearing through a corridor. Suddenly the man was back in the red landscape, the heat, and springs. Tatton traversed the remaining distance and sighted in relief when he stepped into the storage tent. A light breeze from the cooler hit his face, air he greedily drew into his nose. Around him, the computers, fridges and other equipment droned; small, colored lights glowed like eyes (perhaps the machines really looked at him,) in the corners.  
     For a camp filled with intellectuals, Tatton had yet to find any order to where everything was placed. He searched out a small refrigerator stapled on top of two random crates and kneeled down with a grunt to rummage through the broad assortment of softdrinks and alcohol.  
Eventually the man decided on a crimson red beer-can; a brand he hadn't tried before, and took it out intending to open it. Just then, a thin metal arm appeared from above his head and nabbed the can. Tatton twisted his head around. An imposing, broad-shouldered omnic, with four arms loomed behind him. This robot looked less humanoid than most of his peers. He had a narrow head, on the tip a single blue lens regarded him, over a Habsburg jaw. The kneecaps jutted backwards, which gave him a hunched posture. Shoulders, chest, neck: reinforced metal covered large areas of his body. In his four different hands, the omnic held the following: a cellphone, a novel named "The Notebook", the appurtenant bookmark and the beer which Tatton had wanted, far out of reach.  
     – Hello Tatton, the robot said, giving the man Hal9000 vibes.  
     – Hello Garynja, he replied; closing the refrigerator gingerly.  
     The, so-called, Man-maimer dug his claws into the beercan, which burst with a pop, and a stream of yellow liquid trickled down to the ground. Tatton made a dismayed sound.  
     – I was going to drink that.  
     – Tatton, do you know what your sister is doing right now?  
     Garynja completely ignored his outcry. He hang the question in the air, while letting the ruined can fall down on it's spilled content.  
     This is not good. He is pissed. Why is he pissed?, Tatton's alarmed thoughts buzzed.  
     His mouth moved automatically.  
     – She is on the expedition to the omnium, he replied, stating the obvious fact which Garynja already knew.  
     The machine made a disgruntled noise, and without any consideration to the mans comfort, grabbed Tatton by the collar with his free hand, forcing him to his feet.  
     – Look at this.  
      While saying this the disgruntled Garynja practically pushed his cellular into Tatton's face. A button-phone; Garynja could hardly use touch-screens with those claws, over them a small glass window showed the faceebook logo and a familiar picture of Meg, holding up her fingers in a victory-sign and winking.  
     – You follow my sister on Facebook?  
     In hindsight he should have chosen something else to reflect on. At once Garynja pulled Tatton closer so that he stared straight into the soulless, glowing eye.  
     – Your sister posted this on social media a while ago. Pictures of a classified operation. If she'd been born an omnic, I would call her a  &%((& malfunctioning wreck. Don't you siblings have &%((& basic brain-functions?, Garynja hissed; repeatedly spouting a foreign malediction, which Tatton had heard enough time to guess the exact translation to.  
Spending time with the robot had made Tatton learn a whole new vocabulary infact.  
     – Calm down, I'm not part of this. It shouldn't matter if she doesn't specify the location right?, Tatton said and reached for the hand which squeezed the garment chokingly around his throat.  
     Thankfully Garynja allowed the man to pry his grip open, however when he backed off to get some space, the omnic took a step forward.  
     – You got the b&€% on the line or what? he asked.  
     Tatton felt tempted to tell him no, but that would have been an outright lie. Also a short-tempered killing-machines was high up on his list over "things I don't want to anger."  
     – She doesn't appreciate being called that, he told Garynja, and our mental connection is not some hot-li...  
     He was interrupted by the omnic leaning down and roaring straight into his face, using the man as a video-feed to the sister.  
     – Meg! I know you are #?(*Z3 there! You #&b= explain yourself! Why did I find this on &%€€€# Facebook?  
     The phone in Garynja's hand pinged, and the robot turned his head away to look at the display. He red silently for a second. During the blink of an eye, Tatton thought he saw the blue lens turn red.  
     – Don't you dare write about me like that! Garynja exclaimed, once again grabbing on to Tatton's shirt.  
      This time the man could clearly hear fabric rip, as the omnic glared like an enraged bull at Meg through him.  
_You just had to rile him up more._  
     Tatton hoped the edge of his despair and annoyance would sting Meg like a bee.  
     – Remember that I'm just a bystander in this, he pointed out.  
     His skin prickled; afraid that the omnic would fracture the bones underneath. After having served in Overwatch together, there wasn't a doubt in the man's mind that, although Garynja technically had no veins, he was hot-blooded enough to do just that.  
     The phone pinged again, and the farce continued.  
     – No, it's not a lesser insult than calling you a b &€%, Garynja argued with the phone-display, while poking a claw at Tatton's chest. Somebody could easily pin-point our location, with the simplest of €Y€& measures.  
     Tatton could feel his sister's eyes roll.  
     – She wonders who in the world would interested in doing that? It's not like anyone know that we are connected to this excavation, he corresponded. And once again she doesn't appreciate being called a...  
     – It's not about plausibility!  
     Garynja leaned over Tatton, shouting to the point that, if he had a mouth, the man would likely be drenched in spit.  
     – I'm asking you to take your job €%#D seriously Meg. You %/%€ lopsided %#%  
     Tatton scowled at the omnic's insults, though the cellular became the first to reply. Garynja's reaction to the new message reached new levels of being dramatic. Staggering back, he made a shocked outcry.  
     – What are you doing? No! Stop that %#/(Y5e u6r65ey!  
     Just the slightest bit intrigued, Tatton reached out to Meg again.  
_What are you doing?_  
     Her snickering echoed in his head.  
_Only a quiz to go with the picture. You know, the "guess where I am right now game." About clues, what do you think of: "The opposite of sky up over."?_  
     The angered robot made a spitting hiss. To Tatton's horror, he took hold of him with two hands and heaved him upwards, so that his feet dangled a meter over the ground. Tatton extorted an alarmed choking sound. He wasn't the largest man who had ever walked the earth, but it still felt unnatural when another creature could treat him like a ragdoll.  
     – You really want to  &€&& mess with me #%%#%? Stop or I'll make a necktie out of your brother's spine! Garynja stated with ominous promise.  
     Meg's words rang.  
_Oh man. Hang on bro, he is asking for it now._  
_For goodness sake Meg, why are you enjoying this so much?_  
_Do you remember that story about Garynja, which old captain Amari told us that one time?_  
_No Meg. Do not write that, whatever…_  
     The phone lit up with a familiar jingle.  
_Why sis?_  
     As soon as Garynja red the message the grip on Tatton loosened. With a dusty thud and the sound of air leaving his lungs, the man hit the ground; his legs buckled leaving him sprawling like an overturned beetle.  
     – Who in the he€ & told you that?  
The machine squeezed the phone so hard that it looked close to breaking.  
_I hope you realize what will happen when he gets his claws on you_ , Tatton thought with a surly tone; fighting to sit up.  
     Bending down to Tatton's level; hands steadying the large frame, Garynja, a bear-large, metal creature, directed his furiously glowing eye at the man. Slowly his voice-chip pronounced one sentence:  
     – Delete that now, or …  
     His "r" rolled into a low growl.  
_You seriously need to stop angering him, sis ... Meg?_  
     A few seconds ticked by, with neither the cellphone or the man making a sound.  
     – Did you hear me! Garynja raged. I said delete that now, or I'll…  
     – Be quiet! Tatton interrupted.  
     He had noticed the changing mood on the other end, and his sister turning off the safety on her blaster.  
_What's wrong?_  
     Infuriating as it was, Tatton tried not to project any worry on to the sibling.  
_Someone behind us screamed I think_ , Meg replied. _I need to…_  
_Be careful_  
_Who here was the super-soldier again?_  
     Tatton pushed himself back reality, met by the sight of Garynja snapping his metallic fingers in front of his face. With an annoyed grunt, He knocked the other's hand away. The omnic seemed pleased.  
     – Down from space are we.  
     Tatton had no patience left for trivial back and forts.  
      – Something is wrong over there. Meg is investigating it, he reported and the fellow body-guard fell silent for a second.  
      – Is there danger? he asked, inviting a frown from Tatton, who didn't even want to consider that possibility, despite the fact that Meg had been in peril countless times before.  
      – As of yet she isn't sure, he resplied, we will have to wait until…  
      Meg's voice blasted into his head, breaking through all barriers, loud as a concert-speaker.  
**_Tatton!_**  
      He heard unmistakable sharp noises, while shadow-filled light filled their vision.  
**_Several hostiles. Junkers. Armed_** , came his sister's scattered report.  
      Then she blocked herself off from him. Completely. Not risking having somebody inside her head distracting her. For a brief moment Tatton floated in darkness without the ability to breathe.  
   I am drowning, he felt in panic.  
      When coming to, he found the omnic gaping and shaking him violently by the shoulders.  
   Weird, did I fall unconscious? the man thought in a dazed haze.  
     – (***) speak to me! Is there a threat? Garynja bellowed.  
     – Junkers, was all that Tatton had the presence of mind to answer.  
      Cursing, Garynja released him; Tatton struck out an arm to keep himself from falling over.  
     – Of course it would be junkers. Why &&/€% wouldn't they show up now.  
     The omnic swung up on two feet.  
     – If you get the chance, tell your sister that I'm on my way, he said and threw the things in his hands to Tatton, who scrambled to catch them.  
     The robot had been asked to stay and guard the people left in the camp, however Tatton didn't utter a word of protest. His mind instinctively reached out to his sister again, finding only a void. If Meg wanted them to share the same outlook, she would whisk their minds together with swimming ease. If she wanted them to remain separate, he might as well be shouting over a stormraving ocean.  
      – You warn everybody, and lock yourself in the bunker, Garynja ordered Tatton, snapping him out of his thoughts.  
Tatton opened his mouth, though the omnic didn't leave any openings to argue. Muttering indignant comments, Garynja stormed out of the tent, off towards the weapon-supply; Tatton closed his eyes at the dustcloud, which the machine kicked up with his feet.  
     Lock yourself in the bunker.  
      Tatton tried to control his breathing. The heat had come back, jabbing needles into his head.  
  If they had been in a normal factory, I might have been able to load down maps, or hijack security-cameras, and …  
      The man forcibly cut off his train of thought. There would be plenty of time to regret being left on the sidelines, after he'd alerted the researchers to the danger.  
 Calm down and follow protocol, Tatton thought, while beginning the strenuous process of getting to his feet.  
     What else could he do?


	2. Chapter 2

When growing up Meg Short had been taught to think twice. This appeared to be the most important lesson a single mother could give her daughter who had hit her head trying to loop on a swing, then fractured an arm on her second attempt.  
    That tiny child didn't exist anymore, or, rather she had changed. Struggles in a non-cinematic warzone had taught Meg that her immortality wasn't a natural law. Still, being brash had it's advantages, so she kept an open mind to whatever reckless suggestion the impulsive part of her brain conjured forth, as long as the farsighted part could also chime in the measurement of crazy those ideas contained. This situation supplied the perfect example of how her thought-process went.  
    Time for a quiz: a huge group of junkers are currently having you surrounded. They smell bad, are armed and certainly crazy. You are outnumbered and the outlaws won't negotiate with groups that have omnics in them. What do you do?  
    Meg's first instinct was to grab her gun and run straight into the action. Scream epic one-liners, empty whole magazines on those freaks and teach them what happened when you messed with a super-enforced-soldier.  
    Not even she would survive a stunt like that, Meg knew, and she carried a responsibility to get all the shit-scared researches and slightly nervous body-guards out of this mess. This super-enforced-soldier was their best bet, so she shouldn't wreck it.  
    The cave they had entered, something that must have been a massproduction-facility once upon a time, could best be described as an underground scrapyard. When lowering oneself down with wires from the ceiling she'd noted a distinct drop in temperature compared to the oven above. Not even the australian sun could defrost a carcass of such a size, that none two corners of the room were visible at the same time.  
    Giants bowed their heads against the earth, the machines which had stood for production slumbered in broken rows, left to fall into pieces. In places where the old pavement hadn't broken into pieces, the footsteps echoed hollowly. Occasionally one could hear groans and a crash whenever someone needed to move a broken beam, or machine-parts that obstructed them.  
    Despite this, the researchers that had remained underneath the hole didn't hear a sound when the junkers came creeping out of the crevices and surrounded them like giant, hunting spiders. Not before someone cut the rope, which had connected them to the outside and arms begun firing.  
Two of the fellow body-guards, Willson and Fatima, had managed to hold back the front-runners until the rest had returned, at the cost of Willson getting a nasty hit in the leg. Not every scientist had gotten off scot-free either. One older man laid face down with a horrendously blood-stained back. His chances didn't look good. Already one small defeat. The rest laid covering on the ground, barely able to control their erupting panic. A thorough education never helped much in your first fire-fight.  
    Unsightly freaks crowded among the trash-heaps, out of reach of the defenders' weapons which had proven superior to their own hand-crafted guns. They bided their time, wolfs waiting for the rest of the pack to arrive before attacking large prey. When directing her flashlight into the darkness, sometimes Meg saw gleaming dots, eyes that reflected light like those of canines or rats.  
    In Sydney Meg had pinned citizens who claimed that irradiation had robbed the outbacks-residents of their humanity, as seriously racist. Glimpsing the junkers up close for the first time, a sick queasiness churned in her stomach.  
    Metal scraped along the ground behind Meg; her comrades pulled pieces of alloy and beams into a horseshoe-shaped barrier that would provide protection, while she and some other's kept watch.  
    The junker jittered amongst themselves, seeming to be in good spirits. Sometimes they burst into laughter and threw vulgar jeers the outsider's way. More outlaws steadily trickled into the cave like ant-soldiers, likely the underground network of caves was their ant-hill. A tingling certainty in her spine, told Meg that an attack would come soon. She gritted her teeth.  
    How could this be happening? Scratch that. How was this even possible? The mission had been risky, sure enough. They had prepared for an encounter with one or two junker-squadrons, though not their entire #"%ing community.  
    Figuring out how the outlaws had known to find them here, wasn't her first priority however. Meg carefully judged the distance back to the tunnel which led down into the core. The rest of the excursion-party waited down there, hopefully, in safety. If they fled now, would all of them be able to escape through there? One look at Willson, ghostly pail and leant against a production-band, quickly disproved that notion.  
    On his own request, Fatima and other providers of first aid had begun to treat him last. Willson grimaced as Fatima disinfected the wound and tried to remove as many splinters embedded in the leg as she could, before bandaging it. By the time she was finished, he had sunken into an unconsciousness.  
    With a sigh the other body-guard wiped sweat of her brow, then looked up when she heard the other soldier coming closer.  
Meg loosened the belt with flashbomb-grenades around her waist and handed them to Fatima, who gave her a confounded glance.  
    – During the fire-fight, I want you to bring Willson and the scientists into that tunnel, Meg instructed. Then place these explosives around the entrance and after all of us have passed through, we will detonate the passage.  
     The look Fatima gave her held more than a little doubt.  
     – Is that your plan? Excuse me, but setting up a large-scale explosion underground sounds suicidal.  
    She's right, this plan is bloody ludicrous, Meg thought to herself, but still crossed her arms obstinately.  
    – Well if you have a better plan, let's hear it.  
    Clasping her mouth shut, Fatima plucked away three of the grenades and pushed them into Meg's hand.  
    –Take these for yourself at least, she said, face frowning, still relenting.  
    The bombs changed hands with a squeeze around the fingers for good luck.  
    A shrill war-cry rang through the cave, all the soldiers whirled around, deeply inhaling before diving into the flood.  
    Hollering, waves upon waves of junkers rushed over the trash-mountains. A front-runner became visible at the top of one, waving a metal-bat like a banner. Vindicating her nick-name as Quick-shoot Meg, the soldier squeezed the trigger with weasel-reflexes and snuffed out the outlaw's war-general fantasies forever.  
    Bursts of bullet-fire erupted in the cave, coming from both body- guards and junkers', who shoot before getting in range.  
    Any other rogue-band, that weren't consisting of crazies, might have retaliated as their front-line thinned, however the junkers went for their target like really happy attack-dogs, trampling over fallen comrades as if they didn't see a difference between them and scrap. Crackling explosion created a stroboscope of giant shadows, and sent echoes reverberating between the walls in ear-splitting cacophony.  
    She had emptied her first magazine. Meg ducked behind the barricade, rehearsing a choreography with her hands, done thousand of times before. Reminding herself to keep breathing - a person could stop without noticing - Meg stood up. In that moment a projectile smashed against the wall underneath Yuri and burst. A nasty shower of scrap dug into her chin and sprayed blood over the guards near her.  
    With a yell of rage, Meg unleashed a bullet-rain into the horde of outlaws; the second magazine emptied faster than the last.  
Just as the gun clicked empty, one of the junkers leaped from one of the contruction-giants, flew several feet into the air and came tumbling down towards her with an exited whoop.  
    Startled, but instincts working in her favor, Meg jumped backwards, just out of reach of the junker that landed and swiped at her with krueger-style claws. What looked like two giant coils were melded into his legs and through the momentum of the first jump, they sent the outlaw upward again. Before he escaped, Meg commemorated his visit with a shoot from her spare-handgun, and the junker slumped limply forward in the air, unconscious or dead.  
    She had barely time to reload, before a female outlaw threw herself over the barrier with an animalistic screech. A glimpse of an ungodly thin body, with bright yellow skin that peeled like a lizard's. In a berserker-rage the junker aimed for her with a flaring revolver, but her aim was sloppy. Meg didn't show her any more mercy than she had the man.  
     By this point the unrelenting pressure from the attackers made it impossible to fight them from a distance. Generally Meg never had a problem with that. As she saw it, when enemies got into her face, it gave her the opportunity to push into theirs. By rushing straight into the herd of armed hostiles, she could take care of business quicker, while still having cover (relatively), since her opponents didn't risk shooting (usually) as long as she surrounded herself with their allies. Of course, none had said junkers would act like normal humans in this situation.  
     Meg had been taught to think twice, however in a fire-fight you sometimes didn't get the opportunity. Gut-feeling had been her guide countless times and she counted the fact that it hadn't killed her yet as testimony to the accuracy of her stomach. Hoping for the best Meg tossed first a pulse bomb and then herself into the fray.  
    With reflexes more aline with an animal than a human being, Meg fought her way viciously through the cluster of lovecraftian freaks. The uncertainty of what she could encounter amplified the adrenaline-rush to the point of giving her a giddy grin.  
    A man with flame-throwers instead of arms, then a woman who dived for her throat with a jaw full of shark-teeth. Almost the craziest one were a lumbering walrus-like guy, who had a mass of spikes sticking out of his back.  
    Most of the junker's faced her mano-a-mano, having, despite the doubts, enough compassion (or sanity), to not shoot Meg through their friends.  
    Fighting like this, jetting between targets like the wind, Meg was born to do. Her fiery shouts mingled with the junkers'.  
However, the super-soldier fought under more pressure than what it seemed. The enemies still outnumbered her and the junkers showcased impressive mobility among the rubble, skipping over the unsteady surface like mountain-goats, having likely practiced the art since childhood. While Meg also knew the trick of using messy terrain to her advantage, she didn't know junk like junkers. Only the God-send backup-fire from her comrades provided her some sliver of relief in the battle.  
    At some point she had been hit; Meg tasted iron on her tongue. In the unrelenting flood of attacks there wasn't time to properly reflect over it. Four junker's neared her from all sides, Meg whirled around between them, when a piercing cry split through noise of battle.  
    No set of organic lungs could provide a sound like that, faintly like the roar of some beast, but with the jarring frequency of a screaming speaker.  
    All activity on the battlefield stopped, every head turned upwards, to the gleaming ray of sunlight coming down through the hole in the ceiling and where a huge, blue-glowing shape hung from the rock like a bat. The first one to move was Meg, who exhaled with a smile while driving a fist into a distracted junker's abdomen.  
    Look at that, the cavalry had arrived.


	3. Chapter 3

**Registration number: AsTur4753794, designated as Garynja. An original model designed by God-program Indra, crafted for scouting and partisan duties during the omnic-crisis.**

**History: Took part in battles across the central-asian continent and earned additional upgrades after his remarkable presentation in Russia.**

**When the first strike-team of Overwatch succeeded in destroying Indra, which had orchestrated the battles in central asia, the omnic begun pursuing them in the years to follow. The strike-team reported several confrontations with Garynja, three of which ending with civilian casualties.**

**After the U.N and leading omnic representatives signed the peace-treaty, Garynja, now considered a war-hero, continued the fighting as part of wide-spread rebellious factions that persisted after the official end to the war. Committing crimes consisting of everything from damage of property to killings.**

**Rather than being captured by the government, after two years Garynja turned himself over, together with another faction leader. The reason for doing so was surmised simply as a "change of ideology within the resistance." Put on trail Garynja pleaded guilty on all charges, with exception of the claim that he'd murdered ••••••••••••••••.**

**At first sentenced to lifetime in prison, but due to the intervention of Overwatch, allowed to cut years off the penalty through service in their ranks, on the condition that Garynja would be incarcerated outside the field and disposed if acting impermissibly. A number of omnic politicians were the main promoters of this set-up, hoping to make omnics, who still look up to Garynja, more positively attuned to the Overwatch organization. Another instigator was the leader of Overwatch's co-op forces, Gabriel Reyes, arguing that Garynjas combat proves and mobility would be an useful asset.**

**After the disbandment of Overwatch Garynja was relocated to the U.N, to continue working under similar conditions.**

* * *

 

   In a single moment Garynja had captured the eyes of the whole room, then the junkers all shoot at him. Like flicking a lightswitch the war-machine's blue glow was snuffed out. The barrage of bullets hit where he'd been, pebbles rained down on the solders gathered below. As quickly as it had begun the fire stopped. With no blasts to impede it, the sound of claws digging into stone reached Meg's ears, from somewhere in the darkness.  
   Unfortunately for the junkers, Garynja only needed two of his four arms to keep hold of the ceiling and the omnic never leaved his blasters at home. Soon the rows of outlaws found themselves assaulted by a lethal rain of fusion-blasts. This was the first time Meg saw junkers wail in panic and run into each other, with heads and guns pointed straight skyward.  
   A more perfect opportunity to strike, she couldn't ask for.  
   – We got them now!, Meg yelled. Guys, follow my lead, we…  
   Looking behind her, she glimpsed only Georgio's glowing white face caught in an expression of terror, before he fell down among the others.  
   The battle stopped existing. What Meg saw was only a quavering pitch-black shadow standing in the ring of despatched soldiers. The face of a dead owl stared towards her.  
   Deranged, her mind connected the sight to depictions of the Grim Reaper in gothic paintings. Meg's triggerfinger recovered before she did. With a feral scream, she watched her bullets detonate across the killer, only stopping when the weapon jammed.  
   A normal shot person would stagger, would fall. This thing erupted into smoke, like an illusionist's prank played at a magic-show. The soldier stood handfallen, attempting to separate reality from delusions; not even realizing how open she'd left herself.  
   Only through the corner of her eye, did Meg catch the handcannon of a gun pointing towards her temple. She ducked as a scalding explosion went off over her head, smelling burnt hair.  
   On impulse Meg struck out with her right leg, it connecting with the wraiths hip. In some corner of her brain, she had feared her foot would pass through him like a stone thrown at fog, but what she encountered was hard, firm muscle. A kick from her could fracture an untrained man's pelvis.     The shade grunted, a raspy canine's growl, however undeterred he aimed for her again.  
In that moment a pair of fusion bolts rained down right where the wraith stood, the explosion throwing Meg backwards. She rolled several meters, stopped by hitting a boulder and huffed as the air was pressed out of her body. Only a smoking crater remained of where the shade had been. With a crash, Garynja landed beside it and turned a vicious glowing eye towards her.  
   – Well Meg, while I never expect you and your friends to be of help, it would be nice if you shit-heads didn't get picked of like rabbits. They pass the the blame on me for less.  
   Not bothering to answer, Meg rushed over to Georgio and rolled him face-up to search after signs of life. The sight of him caused convulsion in the back of her throat. Had she seen less in her life, Meg would have puked then and there. Instead she took a shallow breath and straightened.  
   – Do you know what that was? she asked Garynja, though her mind was already supplying an answer that Meg would never truly consider true.  
   Like a monster in the closet that makes you scream "Bogey Man!'" she thought. Eventhough that is only a fairy tail. A reaper on the battlefield that vanishes into smoke had to be a fairy tail.  
   Uttering a snort of dismissal Garynja turned his back to her.  
   – I got no clue; who cares? I ƒ®≈‹ üµ incinerated his atoms extra crispy.  
   The omnic's last words transitioned into a low growl and Meg followed his luminous gaze to a large horde of junkers that skipped over the rubble towards them, ecstatic to finish off the pitiful rest of their prey.  
   A clicking sound from underneath Garynja's feat signified the appearance of two smooth spears between his talons. Hurriedly, Meg stepped out of his path and like a sprinter on rollerblades the robot threw himself forward. The attackers had just about enough time to look surprised, before he intercepted them.  
   Only an augmented human like Meg had the capacity to follow what happened next. To the junkers it must have looked like three of them spontaneously dropped their heads, while others fell to the ground without legs, without arms. One unlucky fellow in particular without half of his body. Blood-fountains sprayed, horrific screams following tho. Garynja's messy method of close-courter murder would, as usual, fit right into a gore-movie. Sliding to a halt behind his victims, the omnic held out his arms, jagged blades extending from each of them, edged with spinning blue laser.  
   The omnium who constructed him, must have known how terrified we humans are of chainsaw-killers, Meg reflected.  
   Operating both chillingly swiftly and methodically, the robot zigzagged to the next crowd and with wraith-screeching swords, seared all flesh within his reach into messy chunks. It seemed the super-soldier wasn't needed.  
   Meg couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.  
   No! I shot that man too and it didn't take him down, she thought, snapping her head away from her succumbed comrades and towards the ongoing battle.  
   As her eyes searched the encroaching shadows, Meg observed a movement, black upon black, motion one sensed rather than saw, like clouds floating over the night sky. First the white skull appeared, bobbing in the air, a dead bird's disembodied head. Then shoulders, chest, a pair of arms and guns come into view, smoke welling from their edges. Slowly, as if consumed by the pleasure of it, the wraith aimed the weapons at the omnic's exposed back.  
   – Garynja!, she exclaimed.  
   The robot had enwrapped himself in the fighting, still he whirled around as she had hoped and spotted the black figure right behind him.  
   Scarlet gun-shoots flew at the omnic the very moment he reeled back in surprise. Even for a supersoldier, it looked like it was too late to dodge, however Garynja showcased the reflexes of a panther. A blur, the omnic leaped to the side and with a swipe of his feet, circled around the phantom.    The wraith stood still, hands to his sides, turning only his head to follow the speedster. With another one of his unnatural roars, Garynja threw himself at the figure.  
   If the machine moved fluently like a cat, then the shade retaliated as quick as a viper. As the omnic jumped, the wraith snapped one of the guns upwards, that instant when Garynja couldn't dodge.  
   A piercing blast, going through Meg like a tremble. With a ringing clang Garynja fell to the ground, curled up like a dead spider. For a fraction of a second Meg's thoughts screamed at her that the murderer had killed her last comrade, then she noticed how the robot fought to rise back up on his feet, though clearly struggling.  
   The black pits in the mask turned and held Meg captive for a second, then the wraith dismissed her and stalked slowly towards the wounded omnic.  
   You don't think I can do anything to stop you.  
   The realization hit Meg like a slap to the face. Anger pushed away any horror that had made her brain churn like an un-oiled machine. In an obstinate refusal to uselessly watch Garynja being murdered, Meg dropped the unusable gun to the ground and reached for the last pulsebomb in her belt.  
   Let see you survive this, monster, she thought and made an onset of flinging the active grenade, before hesitating.  
   Sure, this would take out the murderer and kill Garynja with him.  
   Before finishing the motion of her throw, Megs fervently working mind had stopped at a different solution.  
   I pray to God Fatima. Please have evacuated everyone, she thought and turned completely around.  
   About a world-record throw away, their escape route flashed blue like a tree on christmas. Only instead of lamps, it had been dressed by armed explosives.  
   Here's hoping this explosion turns out to be just as stupid dangerous as Fatima predicted, Meg prayed and then hurled the bomb with all her precision and might.  
   The beeping object sailed an athlete's best across the cave and landed darn close to a hole-in-one. Then it exploded.  
   The roaring shockwave sent Meg flying. As she had hoped the blast were what-kind-of-gunpowder-where-in-those? huge. All the poor bastards who had stood too close got incinerated. The heat seared her face, an unbearable brightness that lasted until she hit the ground. Her armored west deflected a steel-pole, which would have pierced her like kebab otherwise. The order in which Meg regained her senses afterwards, went thus: A ringing-noise was splitting her skull apart, she became aware of the ground trembling underneath her, smelled smoke, then she saw the ceiling crumble.  
   Cracking open the rock-face sent showers of stone down at the people floundering in panic below. Meg turned her head to the right, away a stone big as an ostritch-egg and kicked herself away before a boulder shaped like a badger could squash her stomach. A cloud of dust, awoken, rose sluggishly from the ground like morning mists on the coast, until Meg couldn't see the nose in front of her face.  
   Waving like a helicopter as she staggered to her feet, Meg stumbled over the heaving ground in the direction where Garynja and that black … Reaper had been.  
   If the whole cave collapses now ..., she thought. If an enemy finds me before I find Garynja. ... She didn't finish neither of those thoughts.  
   – Where are you, stinking hunk-of-metal?, she mumbled, eyes dodging around her after the hint of blue glow.  
   The shaking had settled, soon her smokescreen would dissipate. Meg inhaled briskly in agitation and regretted it when grinded stone-flour stuck to her tongue. Repressing a cough, aware that a killer in a skull-mask could be standing three steps away from her, Meg turned around wondering if she had wandered too far.  
   A hand shoot out across the ground and grabbed her ankle.  
   Biting her tongue to stop it from shrieking, Meg yanked violently, however the grip was like steel. Steel … A hand made of steel.  
   – Figures that you would find me first, she whispered and smiled.  
   A fen-fire, the omnic's lens glowed at her in the dust.  
   When crouching, Meg could see why the omnic had been hard to find. He peeked out of a rift in the stone, likely once covered by the floor that had gradually corroded away. If he hadn't grabbed her, Meg would have walked past him.  
   – How did you find this? she asked while lowering herself down into the rift.  
   – We machines don't rely as much on our eyes like you humans, Garynja replied in a hushed tone. I use a sonar.  
   – Is that why you keep roaring like that? I assumed it was a rallying scream or something.  
   – Can you keep ®ª‘†µƒ quiet?  
   Garynja pressed his large frame more tightly together, in order to fit both of them in the narrow space, just deep enough to cover his head. It would look like both of them had disappeared off the battle-field. The poetic justice of this wasn't lost on Meg.  
   See how you like it when your enemies goes up in smoke, Mr. Ghostguy, she thought and smirked.  
   The triumphant feeling disappeared when she noted the way Garynja pressed one oil-smeared hand against a leakage in his chest.  
   – Did he hit you badly?, she asked and Garynja snorted as if she had insulted him, which Meg took as a good sign.  
   – Instead of concerning yourself with me, figure out how we will get out of this mess.  
   The omnic removed the hand to point at Meg, which revealed a hole that would look fatal on any organic lifeform, though Meg had seen similar robots move with worse injuries, so she trusted that Garynja wasn't as bad off as he seemed.  
   Leaning back as well as she could in the rift, Meg allowed the tension and exhaustion accumulated to settle on her and immediately the image of the fallen returned. She clenched her teeth and, unable to scream off her self-frustration, Meg beat the rock with a bailed fist, relishing the pain that reverberated up her arm. The omnic's turned his head towards her, though naturally Meg couldn't read the machine's mood until he spoke up.  
   – Do you feel bad about our colleagues? You should, this was your fault from the start.  
   – Come again?  
   – I told you that leaking information through your phone would lead to enemies pin-pointing us. Well look what happened.  
   Her ears had to be fooling her. This day had been too long, too ∂˛√‹ strenuous for her to handle Garynja's idiotic accusations. Meg had to force herself to open her mouth slowly and with control, otherwise she might have breathed flame over the omnic.  
   – Listen now, you junkyard insect. Firstly: Junkers reading Facebook, are you ¸ serious? Secondly: I made the post an hour ago. Do you think they could have set this up in that amount short time? I just saved your scrapped ass and you never even thanked me. No, instead you ... claim that I'm to blame for…  
   Garynja cut her off by pressing a hand against her mouth, and probably just as well Meg realized after cooling down her boiling temper, in her rant she had begun to speak louder and louder.  
   She made a sign to show that she had calmed and the machine removed his palm. The light from his lens flickered so brightly that Meg couldn't look right at it. If Garynja had been a human his face would have likely been dyed in furious crimson.  
   – We don't have the luxury of fighting amongst ourselves, he hissed, though the way his claws scraped across the stone hinted that he really wished to. Tell me if you have any more grand aces up your sleeve, like the one who saved my scraped ass, as you put it. Preferably one that doesn't involve me facing off against ∂›√˛ Reaper again.  
   Meg startled, ice trickling down her spine.  
   – That thing you called him, the black guy, she whispered ... Garynja, the Reaper is nothing but an urban legend between soldiers.  
   – Don't believe in ghost-stories?, Garynja replied, gazing up through the rift. Too bad one is staring us in the face.

   At the top of a mountain of rubble, the looming Reaper surveyed the area. Filters in his mask painted the dark cave red. Nothing to see except junkers roaming around aimlessly, like monkeys.  
   – Oi, Black hood! A shrill voice, far too used to being obeyed, called out behind him.  
   An irritated rumble resonated deep in the back of his throat.  
   Reaper didn't face the queen of the Junker's; after utilizing his wraith-form he didn't move more than needed. With his hearing, an underestimated sense, Reaper followed the steps of her and her two wards as they clambered up towards him. Judging by the clanking, one of them sported a peg-leg. When he could practically feel their strained breaths against his neck, Reaper tilted his head ewer so slightly to glance at them. Doing that caused a storm of piss-ants to travel down from his neck; Reaper grimaced behind the mask.  
   The totalitarian leader of Australia's outcasts stood with her legs wide apart, hands resting on her hips, in a saucy fashion. In the filters she might as well be called the Queen of hearts, Reaper imagined her opening her mouth, yelling: Off with their heads! Off with their heads!  
   – This ambush you organized turned into a fine mess. Lost a lot of good men to those goverment-lackeys and their machine, she said, wearing a smile that openly admitted that I-don't-care-really-'but-I-have-to-be-a-pain-in-the-ass-so-you-know-that-you-not-the-boss-of-me-boss.  
   How he absolutely loathed Junkers. Too loony to realize that standing a meter from him was a death-warrant. If he shoved a shotgun into the Queen's big mouth, that would teach them.  
   Prioritize the mission, he told himself.  
    – We had a deal.  
   A slow gravely sentence, that felt like it traveled through a throat made of acid. He was used to it and continued slowly.  
   – Talon weaponry and the excavators' equipment. In exchange for that you would kill the intruders, which we informed you of.  
   The queen shrugged and with some satisfaction Reaper noted that she leaned back a subconscious centimeter. Though it could be for another reason than intimidation.  
   Her lackeys, two scrawny men wore openly disgusted expressions and zipped the air close to him in small gulps. Breathing and walking, the mercenary still had the smell of decay lingering around him like a curse. That people showed nausea around him had long since stopped offending the Reaper. Though since those junkers smelled like open sheep-stomach themselves. …  
   – Fine, I hear you tall, dark and gruesome, the queen said, while staring straight into the holes of his mask. Just if you gotten into the fray earlier, there would be a lot less dismembered bodies in 'ere.  
   Useless lot who couldn't take down one omnic by themselves, Reaper wanted to reply, though his throat hurt enough already.  
   Clearly in his mind, Reaper recalled the voices of the council-board. Maximillian, especially, hadn't been keen on him going to Australia, his lenient robot-voice whinnying.  
   – If you are spotted, a man of your … impactful presence, by anyone who is not a lunatic, they could connect you to Talon, however small the chance may be. Then what do you think their first question will be: Why is the close associate of a terrorist-cell inside an omnium-factory? All our carefully laid plans risk being impacted. … Let the junkers handle the matter on their own. If you must have them supervised, send someone else to do it.  
   – Dear Maximillian, can't you see that this is important to him?, Moira had spoken up from her end, a lizard like smile streaked over her face.  
   The mismatched eyes of hers had been drenched with alluring warmth, the kind a blizzard wrapped it's victims up in. A frost-bite's dream of warm blankets and open fire-places, while the cold stole their life away.  
   – Reaper needs to see to the execution of former Overwatch members himself. Watch them be crushed between his fingers.  
   Chuckling, she had plucked a grape from a fruit-bowl placed on the table and pooped it between her teeth.  
   Yes, I have business with my former colleagues, Reaper thought, squeezing the handles of his guns in longing. The scientists, the soldiers, everyone who could have heard a word about me will die.  
   – When we find the targets, trap the robot, but leave the killing to me, he ordered the queen, who crossed her arms and scowled, but had enough wisdom to not jerk around with him any more.  
   Whirling around, she strode back down the hill in an impertinent slow pace. Her followers scrambled after, not as skillful at masking their eagerness to get away.  
   When she had left Reaper lifted a finger up to the transmitter embedded in the hood beside his right ear. With a wave of static, it jumped alive.  
– Has the Sparkbug breached the bunker yet? he asked.

   When Meg opened her mouth it wasn't a small shriek that came out of her, but a full-blown scream. Beside her Garynja looked towards her in horror.  
   – What are you doing!  
   The soldier's face had turned white like milk, her dilated pupils looked unseeing, all light sucked inside their black pits. Garynja tried to grab a hold of her flailing arms, but the lack of room hindered him. Meanwhile the screaming had taken on an inhuman aspect, more fitting a cow being whipped. It unnerved the machine to hear a woman make such howls.  
   – You will get us both killed. Snap out of it!, he exclaimed.

Meg couldn't hear him. Walls that had blocked her mind opened up like a crumbling dam; all water behind it flooding her head. Her brother's voice.  
_Meg! Can you hear me? There is somebody…_

Air passed in and out of him and the cold floor pressed against his chin. Tatton clung to these dim sensations, as if they were the threads of his own sanity. In the corner of his eye he glimpsed a two-toed foot, or something modeled after the like. The creature they belonged to crouched down and looked at him with three glowing dots for eyes. It had a short, bent figure, the head of an ant; made of half red armor and half limbs that looked like tissue. Ash-gray corpse-tissue.  
   – Click-clicketicktick-click-clack-clack.  
   From the thing's mouth came a series of clattering noises, head rattling back and forth like on a mannequins doll. A big, vaguely pinger-shaped machine in it's hands whined and the tip lit up with electricity.  
   Tatton's entire body tensed as the object was lowered down towards him.

Maddening pain returned, Meg arched her back and kicked at the hands which restrained her. Flashes of light exploded in front of her eyes, and her teeth clattered uncontrollably.

When it finally stopped Tatton collapsed listlessly, all muscles slack like empty sacks of potatoes. Only the heart inside of him continued it's pounding, a terrified doe caught in a snare. Some small aloof part of his brain found itself surprised by this. That this sheltered muscle in his chest could still be beating, that the fright hadn't made it stop in shock.

Meg smelled something similar to meat burnt in a pan.  
_Tatton! Oh,Tatton!_  
_Sis?_  
_I'm … Im so..._  
   She wondered how they still could be breathing. Why hadn't their heart stopped?  
_I am so glad that you are here._  
   Tatton moved his lips, only in his head did the words come out. People came out of nowhere and…  
_How could they do this to you?_  
_He cried. She cried._  
_Help me Meg. Please help me,_ her brother begged her.

– Meg listen to me!  
   Garynja yelled now. Grabbing Meg by the shoulders he shock her roughly. Meg's eyes rolled unresponsively around in their sockets. Next the omnic tried to cover the still struggling soldier's mouth, without accidentally shredding her chin with his claws.  
   A huge weight was suddenly thrown over him. Startled, Garynja let go of Meg and groped outwards with his four arms, quickly identifying the reinforced meshes as part of a net. A human wouldn't have been able to stand up straight with this covering them; Garynja found that not even he could tear it apart.  
   Snarling the machine whirled around to where he sensed the two junkers who had thrown the net. Blades screeched through it's openings and pierced both through the stomach.  
   Before given the chance to struggle free, the net begun to buzz ominously and Garynja whined in pain as an electromagnetic current entered his body. Systems cooked within him, blaring out their warning in a vociferous chorus; closest thing to panic that a robot could feel. He fell to the ground, now laying next to Meg who twitched in her own form of electric torture.  
   – Come on Meg, wake up, the omnic urged, desperately struggling to overwrite the automatic procedures that shut down his motor-functions, which were judged out of order.  
   He glanced up at the silhouettes gathering around the rift, gaze stopping at the tallest one, looking back at him with malicious skeleton eyes.  
   Meg's wet face trembled.  
   – Garynja, she mouthed, like a person who tried to emerge from a powerful dream. They are torturing Tatton. He is asking for help.  
   – Forget him!, the robot yelled at her. You need to be with yourself now. Push Tatton away Meg!  
   He might as well have asked her to gauge out her eyes. Resolutely Meg shook her head. First quickly, then slowing down as she sunk back into her absentminded state. Above her Reaper pointed his gun.  
   – Meg, You'll ƒªﬁ‘®®∂ç die! Let go of Tatton; he'll kill you!  
   Giving him an confounded look, as if she thought he hadn't heard her well enough, Meg opened her mouth to answer.  
   – Garynja, Tatton begs for…  
   The blast from a gun. Pieces of the soldier's head splattered over the omnic.

Somewhere else a man, half-unconscious, let his eyes drift across the blank ceiling above him, as if to look for something formerly there  
  _… Sis?_

It wasn't a noise that would ewer come out an organic set of lungs. Higher than the explosion it filled the cave. Junkers covered their ears with shrieks of pain. It became impossible to think even a single thought.  
   The machine stood up, ignoring the electric net over him and the lights around his body changed, switching color.  
   Red, everything in red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meg was based upon a woman holding a flag in the Overwatch introduction trailer. 
> 
> Tatton and Garynja both shows up on the display in "Recall". Garynja is one of the robots shown, I hope it is clear who, and Tatton is guy number two reflected in Winstons glasses. ... Yhea
> 
> Everybody knows Reaper and the Queen is who she is. 
> 
> The Sparkbug is based on a figure appearing on one of the concept group-images of Overwatch heroes. A white one with some creepy creatures on.


End file.
